


Self-Defence

by DurexOnABible



Category: Logan (2017) - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Calogan, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pre-Logan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:29:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DurexOnABible/pseuds/DurexOnABible
Summary: It turns out that, when you pick another mutant to look after your ailing father figure, you really want them to be able to protect themselves. Logan tries to rectify this. Caliban goes along with it, within reason.





	1. Close Call

He knew before he'd even made it home, of course. Spreading out from the broken water tower came the tell-tale push back against him, insisting harder with each step towards it. The ground vibrated in dusty patterns, and he could feel now the rattle in his own bruised head.

Logan wrenched the door open and pushed himself in.

In many ways, it was nothing new: screeching metal rust, the toppled plants and books. Charles had fallen out of his wheelchair again, lying prone on his side. Struggling towards the storm's eye, he saw Caliban kneeling stiffly to the left, frozen in place with his fingers crushed together on his scalp.

He also saw the shaking muzzle of a gun pointed behind the pale man's head, gripped in the arm of a paralysed robber.

Wading through the ocean of force, Logan placed a hand on Caliban's shoulder to stabilise as he grabbed hold of the weapon; one by one he prized each black-gloved finger off it, locked it, and threw it away. If either robber or mutant saw, they couldn't acknowledge it.

The fingers clenched into a fist, Charles' seizure intensifying. Like so many times before, Logan readied the needle and crawled to the old man.

 

Silence. Stillness.

 

Grasping for a gun that wasn't there, the robber panicked and ran. A wall of scars and fury blocked their exit; their eyes widened through their mask at three metal claws sliding hideously from his knuckles.

Logan paused. They couldn't be older than 18.

A flash of white behind them. He smirked.

[THUD.]

They fell forward to land flat at his feet, knocked out cold. Caliban stood upright, the heavy book shaking in his grasp. They shared a brief glance.

"The world is sideways!"

Charles writhed on the floor in vain. Starting, Logan ran to his old friend, tenderly scooping him up and putting him into bed.

"It's OK Charles, I'm here now"

"I saw him Logan, he was here to drag us to hell!"

"He's gone now Charles, you're safe-"

"DON'T LIE TO ME!" Charles thrashed under his blanket, setting it out of order: "I CAN FEEL HIM, HE'S STILL HERE!"

"I... Caliban, for fuck's sake read him a book or something. I need to get this idiot outta here"

Caliban snapped out of his daze and joined Charles' bedside, book still in hand. He spoke softly: "Alright Charles, how are you doing? You want to hear from this one again? Lovely..."

"I won't be long" Logan said, dragging himself and the intruder through the steel door. The mutant with albinism didn't answer, but his hands held to the book a little tighter as he read.

 

\----

 

It was a work of art really. The use of spare whiskey bottles and one of Caliban's spare t-shirts really sold it: a young kid who went a little too hard one night, and ended up stranded. He'd only have a couple miles to walk to the nearest town, and no-one would believe him now if he tried to tell them.

Driving away from the signpost and the robber, Logan chewed over what had just happened. They were safe for now, but how long until the next asshole turned up trying their luck? Next time Charles might not time his seizures so well. Next time he could come back, and they'd both be dead.

No way could he work any less: he was barely scraping enough together for the drugs, let alone food; Charles might have once kept everyone safe, but things have changed. Which meant he needed someone who could hold their own in a fi-

 

Oh hell.

 

"No time to waste, then." He said to no-one.

Logan shifted the car into a higher gear and sped back to the tower.


	2. Making a Start

“So, I take it you haven’t fought much.”

“Not really, no.”

Logan huffed a short laugh.  “Well, never too late to start.”

Caliban’s lips thinned as he oriented himself to their… ‘dojo’. In truth, they’d just flipped the table over and stuffed it to one side of the dining room, then grabbed a spare roll of linoleum and pinned it down with errant furniture and scrap. “You work with what you’ve got”, Logan had told him while fixing one of the corners.

Evidently.

“I mean when it came to that sort of thing, I wasn’t exactly first pick for combat. Everyone else either had better powers or guns, so they didn’t exactly need Muggins over here. Radar and sunburn, that’s my lot. By myself, I just…”

“You get your ass kicked. Yeah, I figured,” Logan butted in. He cut off the end of a roll of bandage wrapped around his hand, securing it with a Velcro strap, and rolled his shoulders inside his tank top. “So how about we try and change that for next time? Come on,” he beckoned to the taller man “Just, try and land a hit and we’ll go from there.”

“Right.”

Pulling the hem of his t-shirt down, Caliban straightened and curled into what he assumed was a fighting stance, both fists raised like a boxer. When he saw that Logan just stood in place and folded his arms, he began to creep in a circle around his target, weighing up the options. All he got in response was the bearded man turning to face him as he moved.

Two steps, right side forward, left fist pulled back ready.

Suddenly, a long leg whipped up and sprang out at a right angle, sending a bare white heel shooting towards his stomach-

Straight into a pair of rough palms. Which lifted up.

Caliban flew backwards in a circle, head and shoulder-blades scraping hard on the resin floor. Two solid knees landed either side of his waist and he saw the much fitter man land with one hand next to his head, the other raised in a fist. The albino mutant covered his own face with his arms.

And blinked.

“Pretty clever” Logan smiled grimly, now offering the hand to Caliban. He saw the pale hand shrink away, then grasp his own. “But you’re overthinking it.” He went on as he stood up, pulling the other man up with him: “Sure you need to know the situation, but if you try to be clever about it then your opponent’s just gonna hit you first”

Dusting himself off, Caliban frowned: “So hold on, you say no cleverness, but then how come you’re always doing that theatrical-”

“Cos I don’t take my hits so hard, bub”

“Of course.”

Logan raised an eyebrow at the sarcasm, and continued: “Right now, you just need to know where to hit, how to hit, and how not to be hit.”

Caliban scoffed “That easy, then.”

“You’d be surprised.”

The next two hours passed on rhythmically as they trained: a little technique (“No, you keep the wrist STRAIGHT”), a touch of learning the where-to-hits (eyes, groin, etc.), and a whole heap of trying to squirm out of various holds. Sometimes Caliban landed on his arse, but sometimes he managed to get a hit in… before landing on his arse. Clearly a trend.

[WHUMP.]

He’d fallen just outside of the rolled-out rectangle. Head spinning, the thin mutant tottered upright and reassembled his slightly-improved stance.

“Woah there” Logan interjected, striding over to where he stood: “That’s probably enough for today” 

Waving him off and keeping his position, Caliban responded: “What are you talking about? You’ve still got loads of time before your next-”

He winced as Logan ran a coarse thumb over the side of his head, and saw it return coated in blood. Touching under his own temples, he saw the same shade of red dot his chalky fingertips.

“Oh!” A nervous laugh. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Lemme go get something for that.”

“Honestly Logan don’t, I can sort it out myself!” Caliban protested as he followed his erstwhile teacher off their mat. They both entered the kitchen, where Logan was now dragging a chair behind him to one of the drawers. Fishing out some baby wipes, he spun the empty chair around to face the man trailing him.

“Sit.”

“Really I…” He looked at the waiting chair and sighed: “Ok, if you insist” the light-skinned mutant conceded, gingerly lowering himself onto the seat. “I was fine with doing it myself, but go ahead.” He snorted, “I suppose that ‘He Who Dealt It, Deals With It’”

“Alright smartass” Logan grinned to himself, his back turned while he pulled out a wipe. Rounding back to face Caliban, he crouched to be level with the other man. “Turn your head.”

He did so, revealing the wound, then gritted his teeth inside his mouth as the antiseptic cloth wiped away the worst of the blood.  A pair of brown eyes examined the cleaned area, while grey-blue ones looked at the bearded face; it now had a smattering of bruises, the result of a few elbows too many, but they weren’t so big as one would expect.

“Lucky. Just a scrape…” Logan concluded. He went back to the drawer and rifled through until he found a packet of plasters, then returned, and pressed one of them onto the injury. Again, he offered up a hand. “Tell you what,” he said as Caliban rose to meet him: “I can make food and take care of Chuck tonight, you should take some time out.”

“Are you sure? I mean the whole point of me being here is to help you look-”

Logan was already getting out the pots and pans. The skinny mutant wordlessly took himself and his chair out of the kitchen.

\----

The dinner was… Caliban thought it would be worse, to be honest. The meal, maybe a little overcooked, passed by in relative silence. He tapped his foot involuntarily against the linoleum, still rolled out under the table, and watched as Logan finished his food. Before he got the chance to clear away, a long thick arm pulled the plate out from under his nose. Chuckling at the disbelief, the gruff man brought them to the sink.

“We are still doing this, right? The fighting I mean.”

Logan turned.

“It’s just,” Caliban continued: “I thought because of earlier with the knock on the head you might not want to-”

“Do **you** want to?”

“I… Yes.” He stiffened. “It’s been a while since anything like, er, that has happened.” Seeing the stronger man avert his gaze at this, he added: “You know you’re the first one to actually try and train me?”

“Huh”. Logan put down the dishes and re-joined Caliban at the table. “Your former employers didn’t train you? I thought you said you were ex-military”

“A research branch… I don’t think that was the top of their agenda.” His large eyes darted around, looking for some new invisible topic, then seemingly found it: “Hah, I don’t see why you couldn’t have just given me gun training!”

“Hey, if you have $500 lying around for a handgun then go for it”

“Fair point”

“Anyway, you should get some rest: We’ll be starting again tomorrow,” Logan gestured at the door.

“And you’re absolutely positive you don’t want me to help clean up or water Charles’ plants for him or-”

“Go to bed” Logan growled, now pointing door-ward. “That’s an order, recruit” he finished mockingly.

“Alright then, ‘Sarge’.” Caliban rolled his eyes and, checking that the sun had already set, bundled his outdoor clothes together and opened the door with one free hand: “Night, night!”

“Night, you weirdo”

Logan’s eyes followed the stick-figure man as he strolled back to his room. Satisfied, he closed the door and went back to cleaning the dishes.


	3. Drawing A Line

Purple, yellow, and white. A damp flannel wiped over the bruised skin, taking care not to wipe over any plastered cuts, as the sunken-eyed Caliban regarded himself in the mirror. He took the cloth, rinsed it again with as little water as he could, and swapped onto his other shoulder. Grimacing as he made contact with a more recent injury, he tenderly swept past it onto older, lighter wounds. Eventually he was satisfied, cleaning off the flannel one last time before properly looking himself over.

As he’d done so many times over the past few weeks, he coiled into a grounded fighting stance; his own reflection gave a hard stare back at himself, then grinned cheesily. Grisly as he looked, he felt something swell in his chest. From a blank canvas, he’d transformed into this: his own “First Abstract Watercolour”, as it were. He shook his head with a smile, then towelled himself off with the same care as before, before finally taking his neatly-folded t-shirt and shrugging it on.

Button shirt, poncho, scarf, hat, goggles. Just where he’d left them. Now swaddled in his full gear, Caliban stepped out into the afternoon sun. Obviously, he could sense Logan well before the black Chrysler pulled into their home: the meet-and-greet just kind of started happening on its own. He waved at the stocky man as he got out of the car and strode towards him.

“Alright Logan, how was-”

Logan bumped into him, pushing something into his hands: “Present. Gimme a sec,” then pushed past him to get to the outdoor bathroom.

Caliban sniffed after him. Dried blood under the booze.

He walked back inside and set the small rectangular package down on the table. After getting back out of his outdoor clothes, he sat down and considered it.

A long pause.

Then, rounded fingernails slid through the brown cardboard box and prized it open. Sitting inside was a sheathed black knife, about 4 inches long: picking it up by each end, its weight and sturdiness betrayed it to him as a tactical weapon. He placed it back into its Styrofoam packaging with a squeak.

Logan entered their living space and placed one hand on Caliban’s chair. Looking down at the knife: “Like it?”

“I…”  He turned to Logan: “How much did this cost?”

“’Bout fifty dollars. Managed to haggle the price down a bit.”  His tired eyes creased up as he joked: “Cheaper than a gun anyway. What do you think?”

Caliban held the knife again, this time with bony fingers clasping the handle. He looked at it as though he’d grown another arm.

“That bad, huh.”

“No-no-no,” Caliban put it down and explained: “It’s good, I appreciate it! It’s just-” He stroked the grip with one fingertip, then pulled away: “-W _eird._ ”

Remembering that most people hadn’t been born with concealed weapons on them 24/7, Logan moved his hand from the chair to the other man’s shoulder and replied: “Yeah, I ‘spose it would.” Giving a small squeeze: “I’ll get you learning how to use it tomorrow.”

“That sounds… Good, actually. Thanks Logan-”

He saw him shuffling to the kitchen, hunched over one side. “You want any help with dinner?”

 The scruffy man waved a hand away, pausing his companion in his seat.

“You sure? I’m happy to-”

“I’ve got it” Logan said; no malice, but final.

Caliban stayed there while the other man cooked, making a little small talk, the box pushed to the corner of his eye.

\----

Later, he held the knife above him in bed, his eyebrows pushed together as he gazed at it. Unsheathing it again, he ran one soft finger along it: he noted both its blunt, flat edge and the cutting side, serrated near the guard then tapering to a wicked tip.

The meal had passed by in idle chitchat, and tasted better than it did yesterday. As had most meals since their first day of training. He’d managed to get some cooking of his own in for Charles, but even then, 2 out of 3 times it was Logan doing the cooking. And the cleaning. And the caring, and the teaching, the working, the bruising which was far too much to have come from their sparring alone, the scars and cuts and wounds that weren’t healing-

His fingertip slipped on the knife’s point.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He hissed, sticking the cut into his mouth to stem the bleeding. Still sucking on the finger, he made to get out of the bed and go downstairs, then paused: Logan was asleep, and actually getting some proper rest for once. Waking him up by accident? Being fussed over by a man who refused to look after himself?

No. Not worth the risk.

After closing the knife and putting it out of his line of sight, he curled onto one side in his bed, clenching the sheets.

\----

“OK,” Logan sighed, motioning to take the knife from Caliban’s hand; he hadn’t held one in 50 years, but he knew a damn sight more about them than his ‘student’: “Look, if you’re attacking someone you wanna hold it like this:” A hammer-grip, blade facing up, “Or, if you were going for defence just then,” the knife turned 180 degrees in his hand, pointing down, “You were holding it the wrong way ‘round.”

He handed it back to the other mutant and watched him mimic the hold, sharp side facing away from its wielder and back towards himself, then saw him boggle at it and look back up at him with concern.

“Don’t you think we should put some duct tape over it? The last thing we need is either of us getting-”

“That’s why I got you to hold it outwards: so you don’t cut yourself.”

“But you-”

“Me?” Logan laughed wearily, nodding at the blade: “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Caliban tried to chuckle – and couldn’t. His face fell, the knife with it.

“Hey now!” An arm shot out to catch it, grazing Logan’s fingers by accident. “Come on Caliban, you’ve been doing really well and-”

 “I can’t!”

They paused.

“…I can’t,” He corrected himself: “ _This_ can’t keep going like this. Please Logan, I know how much this means to you, but you need to _rest_ -”

“This is all we need to do!” Pointing the hilt of the knife towards his reluctant sparring partner, he added: “I just need to know you can use that thing in a real fight.”

“And I need to know that you’re not killing yourself over it.” He hesitated, then took back the knife. “I’ll do it today, but for God’s sake we’re not doing it again until you actually let me take care of Charles-”

“And me?” Logan smirked.

“…And you.”

“Fine. One sec,” Logan stopped to remove his yellow-white vest, replying to Caliban’s startled face: “I can take the hit, but’d rather keep this in one piece if that’s OK”

He shook his bald head: “Let’s get this over with”

\----

They backed away, circling each other in a familiar dance.

A large right fist flew in.

Instinctively, Caliban ducked to his own right, sweeping his own fist in a punching arc – only to cut a gash across Logan’s chest. He recoiled.

“Oh fuck, sorry! Do you…”

The cut knit itself back together, leaving an angry pink scar.

Logan grimaced: “Glad I took the vest off.”

“You OK?”

“Yeah”

Caliban dodged another swing. And another. And a few kicks. After a few minutes, he was starting to notice a trend.

“Oh come on Logan! Are you telling me the bloody Wolverine isn’t landing a hit!?”

“I told you,” he huffed, “Not to call me that”

“Sorry”, the thin mutant mumbled.

“I’m fine Caliban, and you still don’t know how to use that-”

“No.” Hesitant, then assertive: “Nope! We’re done for the day.”

“You don’t get to say that, I’m the one who’s teaching you-”

“-and I’M the one you put in charge of keeping us above sea level, which I can’t DO if you’re not gonna fulfil YOUR end of the bargain!” Scowling, he made to push past Logan: “Now, do you want a cup of-”

A foot stuck out and tripped Caliban up: his arms flailed-

[shhnngk]

-And he hit the floor.

“Fffffuck! Jesus Logan, do you ALWAYS have to be such a petulant little shi-”

His eyes widened.

The knife was wedged firmly in Logan’s ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that folks! new chapter about half-way through as of April 24th


	4. Knife Edge

“Oh no.”

Logan dropped to his knees.

“Oh no no no no _fuck-_ ”

And fell.

“LOGAN!” He scrambled over, eyes fixed on the blade hilt sticking out of Logan’s back. It had only sunk in about half-way, but already a ring of blood was filling around it and dripping down his side. Caliban crawled to meet Logan’s face, which was turned to one side and wheezing. One watery yellow eye darted to look at him. “Talk to me!”

The eye squinted, and the older mutant coughed red where he lay.

He shook his head: “Oh, okay, that was stupid. Can you hear me at least? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Blink.

“Thank God. Ok, I…” He looked at the upright knife, still oozing at its base, then back: “I can’t- I can’t take it out yet. The bleeding… If I take it out now you’ll bleed out. I need to-” He glanced away, trying to weigh up his options: if he called an ambulance, he wouldn’t know what address to give; then, even if he did, the risk of people finding out about Logan, himself, _Charles_ …

His shoulders fell. Logan stared at him from the floor.

“I need to get some things. Stay still and… breathe easy? I don’t know, just - don’t die, OK?”

He clattered upstairs into Logan’s room, throwing aside a sea of empty whiskey bottles. Soon, he found a small bottle of aftershave – the closest to antiseptic they had; he made a mental note to buy an actual first aid kit after this was over. Throwing himself back downstairs, he fished some clean dish towels and a washcloth out of the cupboard, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves and dashed back over.  After putting the cloth to one side, he leant over Logan and spoke softly: “Alright? I’ve changed my mind. I have an idea, but it’s not gonna be fun. Are you OK with that?”

Logan frowned, then blinked once.

“Right. I’m just gonna…”

A gaunt hand held the knife, and pulled up.

“UNH!” An onslaught of coughing, and the cut, now empty, was bleeding freely.

Fast as he could, Caliban pulled the towel over two pointed fingers, poured the aftershave onto them and pushed it into the open wound.

“-HHAAAAGHH!!”

“Shh, shhhh.” Pulling the fingers out, he bunched the rest of the towel over the hole and pushed down as hard as he could with both hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

They stayed like that for the longest time, one looming over the other, pressed into him, whispering nothings and reassurances as his charge shivered in pain underneath.

Eventually, the rattle in Logan’s breathing settled, not quite so vicious. Caliban sighed in relief. Turning down to him, he spoke: “You’re doing really well, so well, I just need to get something quickly. Hold on.” He stood up then, making his way into the kitchen; rummaging through the drawers, he produced a length of sewing thread and a needle, bringing them back over and running both through the aftershave with his fingers. Not ideal, but maybe Logan’s healing could make up for his own incompetence.

“I’m just gonna clean and patch you up now. Just need to…” He gently tugged on the towel, bringing it out in a soiled, bloody clump. The wound was still deep, still red and angry, but it had stopped bleeding. Threading the needle with difficulty due to the gloves, he began pushing it through the skin on either side, an amateur’s needlework; he could hear the shorter man’s breathing hitch a little as he went. In short time, the line of thread was tied off and cut, leaving a messy stitch closing the wound up. Content, Caliban took the washcloth to the kitchen and ran it under some warm water. When he turned around, Logan was lifting himself up onto his knees.

“Oh! Don’t move too much, you’re still healing!”

 “ ‘M fine, I-” he hacked, curling back over and catching himself with his palms.

“Shh, Logan, it’s OK.” The taller mutant crouched down beside him again, placing one hand on his collarbone to support him. Using the other hand, he wiped away the blood from his back and chest as carefully as he could, saying: “You’ll need to give this time to heal. If I help, do you think you’ll be able to make it upstairs?”

“…Think so.”

“Good.”

Patting down the wet skin with another towel, he removed his latex gloves and offered both hands to the kneeling man. Logan took him by both arms instead, and together they rose slowly, gripped hands edging their way further along the thin arms until he was holding himself up on Caliban’s shoulders: Caliban in turn had repositioned himself to hold the other man’s sides, fingers curled under his arm.

“You good?”

Logan panted: “Yeah.”

“Come on.” He stooped, allowing Logan to rest himself fully on his frame. “Fucking hell you’re heavy!”

Creased in a smile and pain: “-Metal skeleton.”

“You don’t say.”

They staggered together, each holding one rail as they climbed the steps, stopping if the injured man coughed or lost his balance. Eventually they reached the top of the stairs and tottered over to the messy bed, where Caliban gently set Logan down. Pulling the blanket from the bed, he helped move the arms and legs into place, then tucked the sheet back on when he was done.

Their eyes met.

“Logan, I’m…”

“Not now, Caliban.” Logan breathed, exhausted: “Please.”

“…OK. Later.”

 He made to move, to leave Logan to sleep, but stopped, looked back to see him drifting off. Something pushed inside his own chest, and he went back to his side, leant down and put a small, chaste kiss onto his forehead.

Brown eyes snapped open.

Caliban jumped back, then froze in place before the older man’s gaze. Tense, he waited for disgust or pity or-

All he saw was Logan’s face rest again, nothing left but tired eyes looking at him… with regret. His gut coiled.

“Good night,” he managed.

“Night.” Expended, their eye contact broke as Logan finally passed out.

Automatically, Caliban shuffled back downstairs to scrub the rolled-out linoleum, still caked in blood.

\----

“When do you suppose Logan will be back?” Charles asked, between mouthfuls.

 Caliban looked up from the modest fry-up, which he had been cutting into pieces for the elderly man: “He’s just sleeping Charles, he’s had a busy day at work.” Nothing he hadn’t said four times over the past couple of days, but nothing that he couldn’t say again.

“Hmm.” He opened his mouth for another bite, chewing thoughtfully, then: “I like it better when Logan’s here.”

A wave of annoyance washed over the pale mutant – he swallowed it back, scoffed: “Yeah, me too.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake Caliban! Give those here!” Snatching away the knife and fork: “I’m not a bloody two-year-old!”

Both hands raised disarmingly, he relented. Some days his ‘patient’ could eat for himself, but his routine always accounted for the days when he couldn’t. With caution, he watched as Charles gingerly took some fried egg onto his fork and fed himself. Relieved, the tall man peered down below the gurney to fish out one of the many books they’d managed to scrape together, after they’d moved to this rusted place. Opening the book to its first page, he crossed on leg over the other and rested it on top, ready. He turned his attention back to Charles, wearing his best approximation of a kindly smile: “I’m going to read this. If you like, I could read it to you while you eat?”

The knife and fork clinked back onto the tray, wrinkled grey eyes fixed at some point in the distance.

“…Charles?” Shifting in his chair, leaning forward: “Would you like me to help you eat-”

“Love,” he murmured.

“…Sorry?” His gut twisted.

“Love…. Rejected. Spurned.”

A pressure, like the light scrape of a butter-knife, brushed inside Caliban’s forehead. Silently, he closed the book and made to stand up. “Charles…”

“Don’t understand why… Thought he felt… the same? Why he’d done everything, this past month.” He frowned: “Don’t know why…. Unless…”

The paper bag rustled in a shaking white fist. “I think,” Caliban stammered, from the few feet of distance he’d put between them: “It’s time for you to have some more of these-”

“-Unless he knows.”

Both eyes widened.

Charles turned, steadily, unblinking, to face the other mutant.

“Knows what, Caliban?”

Blood racing, he tried to focus on the room, push his thoughts away from the scraping edge of Charles’ mind – still tethered by drugs, but railing against them. Rusted roof; potted plants; weathered carpet; assorted books. He steeled himself, pushing two pills out of their plastic sachet, imploring: “Please, you need to take these pills!”

“So much guilt. Ashamed!” The push grew firmer: “Of what?”

“For God’s sake, Charles! We’re running out of time, please just-”

“Take the damn pills, Chuck.”

So caught up in the moment, neither had noticed the clank of the steel door as Logan had entered, fully dressed in his work suit. Caliban breathed, feeling the flat weight on his brain pull back. Charles looked on sheepishly.

“Logan, he-”

“Is trying to do his job.” Taking what had been the taller man’s seat: “Come on.”

“He’s got secrets.” he placed a scarred hand in his and looked up at him adoringly: “I’m sorry Logan, I thought he was going to hurt you.”

“I told you not to poke around in people’s heads. Not at your age.”

“Hah!” Charles laughed: “You’re one to talk!”

“Yeah, well,” Logan chuckled, unable to come back with a retort. Taking the pills from a stiff Caliban, he said firmly: “It’s time, Charles.”

“Oh, fine. I don’t know what’s even in these things!” Charles complained, throwing the medication into his mouth and drinking his water. He opened his mouth afterwards, smugly showing off that he had indeed taken them.

“Told you before, they’re just sleeping pills. Speaking of, you should finish your dinner and have a nap. I’ll see you later.”

“Humph. Very well. I’ll see you then, Logan!” He picked up the knife and fork and resumed eating as the bearded man cranked the door shut behind him.

Caliban unfroze at the sound, glancing back and forth, then came to his senses. “Wait- LOGAN!” He yelled, pulling his poncho and hat on before running out after him, fumbling at the door and ignoring the icy stare Charles was shooting from behind him.

Huddled in the scratchy cloth, he dashed across the dirt towards Logan, who turned around and, seeing how little protection the albinistic mutant was wearing:

“Holy shit!” Rushing over, he wrapped one arm around him and dragged both of them through the door leading to their living area, slamming it shut behind them. “What were you thinking!?”

“What am I- What about you?” He yanked the hat off his own head: “You’ve only just gotten up and walking again! Where do you think you’re-”

Logan put a hand up to pause, then bent over with a wracking cough. Instinctively, Caliban patted him on the back. Before he could interject, he was interrupted: “It’s fine. I’m not gonna die from driving a goddamn limo.”

“The cough?”

“Scar tissue, probably” he wheezed. “Just gotta live with it.”

“You…” His posture slackened. “Just be careful.”

“Hm.”

As Logan made to open the door again, Caliban started: “Wait! Hold on.”

Looking back incredulously: “Make it quick.”

“I really am, y’know, sorry.” Pinkening: “Not just for stabbing you.”

“Oh, er, it’s-”

“I just,” gathering his thoughts: “I didn’t think you would... be the same way, or even towards me-”

“Ugh,” He put a hand on his scarred face: “Caliban, it’s not about that, it…”

With the same hand, he gestured all around him.

That same look of regret:

“It’s too late.”

Caliban heard the words, but couldn’t process them. Before he could respond, Logan was already opening the door.

“Oh, and, don’t worry about the training anymore.” A smile, grim but sincere: “You’re ready.”

“…I am?”

“For once in your life, just take my word for it.” Closing the door on him, he turned his head back: “Bye, Caliban.”

From further down the corridor: “See you later.”

The door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 is gonna be a short epilogue, so this bad boy is almost done!


	5. Too Late

Much later, and much further away, a large pair of plimsoll-clad feet trod their way through the desert. Caliban turned back round to look at the distant water tower, moon-shadow trailing in front of him, then carried on away from it. He’d made sure beforehand to check inside, peering at the sleeping, prone man: Charles was lost in some old, incomprehensible dream, and Logan had stayed out overnight in the limo.

A spare few hours… they had to count.

Scratching at an itch on his scalp, the chalk-white mutant instinctively felt for a phantom hat, then relaxed. While it was still certainly warm on his skin, the sunlight lost its potency when reflected as moonlight – he absent-mindedly felt where his t-shirt had ridden up, tugging it back down. The few essentials he had needed were bundled in one arm, pressed up against his chest: a small paperback book that he’d bought online, with Logan’s help; a bottle of water; his poncho, in case he had to make the return trip in daylight.

A heavy cardboard box.

Gradually he saw the outline of a nearby ghost town, of about 50 buildings, take shape. Finding it for the first time had been pure accident: he’d merely been taking a night’s stroll to get some fresh air, when he saw it. Drawn to the ruined houses, he had walked among them as another mass of bleached angles. Since then, it had become somewhere to go when he had the time, when he needed to acknowledge his distance from humans and mutants alike.

At least, that had been his initial reason. As it happened, the place had other, more pragmatic benefits.

Caliban ducked his head under a low-hanging doorway, entering the floorspace of an old tailor’s shop. Whoever the people were who had once lived here, they had left in a hurry – There had been no time to take the exquisite clothes, nor the fabric-polystyrene mannequins which they rested on. With care, he unbuttoned a moth-eaten suit jacket from its stand, then, after some rummaging, pulled out a rusted wire coat hanger from the rubble; reaching up with one long arm, he managed to hang it up onto a narrow beam, where it joined a long, smart line of decaying garments. Pointless, perhaps, but something of a ritual now – misplaced guilt for inanimate objects turned habit.

The dummy now stood with three others in a lopsided triangle. He stood to the edge of them and stretched as much as his stooped posture would allow, until loose. Rummaging through his items and prizing open the noisy plastic, he once again found himself with the knife, clutched in a firm hammer-grip. The hunched mutant took his place in the centre of the mannequins and closed his eyes.

And breathed.

He yelled, throwing his weight into the knife-hilt as he descended upon them. A small kettle of nighthawks startled and took flight, calling in alarm while Caliban tore into the starchy, padded bodies, a harsh nails-on-blackboard screech with each thrust.

Then, he stopped and massaged his temples. Each of his “victims” lay discarded on the desert dirt now, frayed and ruptured where they had been attacked – with no resistance.

“For fuck’s sake.” said the mutant quietly, to no-one.

He rose now, tenderly picking up a mannequin in each hand by its splintered wooden base, and carried them round the back of the store; a neat stack of curved busts, riddled with slashes and stab wounds, awaited the new arrivals. The two recently-destroyed stands landed on top of the pile, followed by the third a moment later. Arms crossed, the thin man glared at his previous efforts. How many months had it been? Four? And he was still coming out here, still trying to ‘train up’ by himself. All his efforts, against prop opponents. It wasn’t enough, not to keep the other two safe, and the risk of Charles waking up in the night while he was gone was-

No.

No, not yet. Caliban wasn’t going home until he’d finished. Discipline, that was the key.

At that, he sauntered through the rubbish back to his essentials, taking a quick swig of water when he arrived, and uncovered a second-hand copy of ‘Knife Fighting: A Practical Course’. The convenience of being responsible for online orders to their PO Box meant it was easy to slip the book in with other items, squirreling it away before Logan could see it; no point starting that headache all over again. But then, the few hours the older mutant would return, he would instantly wrap himself in the rust-holed cladding of the water tower, following his ailing mentor around in vain; or he would stagger through their shared living space, hackles raised at any attempts to communicate.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned a few chapters in: ‘Zones of Attack and Defence’ – that would do for tonight. He studied the pages, his eyes adapting to the moonlight as he read. A series of diagrams caught his eye, as they tended to: a balding man in his 40’s, wearing casual polos and denims, posing defensively and confidently with a thick blade. Each still of him was divided into four, showing areas where an attack could strike, and how to defend each area. Something about the man unsettled Caliban, but he couldn’t place his finger on it.

Propping the book open with a small chip of masonry, he tried to picture the quadrants reflected ahead of him, and readied his defensive stance, knife in hand: by now, he had lost his form due to lack of practice, but it serviced regardless. A quick glance at the book again, and he threw his posture into a crooked parody of a ‘zone 2’ parry, protecting his left flank. Another peek, and he shifted his arms, putting them slightly further away from his body.

Zone 5, centre. Zone 1, top-right. Zone 4, bottom-right. Zone 3, bottom-left. Zone 2, top-left. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.

Then he saw the sky.

The moon had begun to set, pushing long shadows into the old shop. All around, the hues began a shift from all-encompassing navy to a warmer shade of green.

Time was up.

He finished the bottle, crushing it in his hand, then pulled his poncho and hood over himself – sunrise wasn’t due for another hour, but he’d made that mistake before. The knife was cleaned and returned to its box; the bottle balanced on top, nestled in the great drapes of cotton as he scurried back out of the ruin, leaving the dead settlement to sleep, and striding back across the stretch of dry earth towards the ancient plant he called home.

For the time being, at least.

It had just been a casual observation, maths-wise. The limo driving brought in roughly half a thousand dollars a week, which was cut down by about three hundred dollars once food, medicine, utilities, and other things had been factored in. That left just over a thousand left over… which then vanished every week, for the past year. Which, by Caliban’s estimate, left a total of sixty thousand dollars unaccounted for.

From there, he hadn’t needed to wait long before he found out: a newspaper clipping left out on the table, pinned down by a cup of stale coffee, listed an advertisement for a “1996 Sunseeker Manhattan”. The grey pointillist photograph showed a moderate-sized motor-yacht, parked somewhere on a distant port – priced at seventy thousand dollars.

When he first saw it, the blood had drained from his face. He tried to imagine himself going with them, confined to the lower decks like a vampire, then realised: of course he couldn’t. He was never meant to come. He’d left it where he found it, but brought the coffee with him to flush down the sink. A few days later, he had managed to calm down, to rationalise; it made sense for Logan and Charles to do so, to get out to sea, and as far away as possible from anyone the seizures could hurt.

Including him.

Still, he’d figured, it would be a pleasant way to end the elder mutant’s days. And after all was said and done, he could arrange afterwards to collect Logan… and help him through the loss, just as he’d done for the past year.

Back in the present, he found himself once again spying on the sleeping Charles. A small mercy: their patient was long overdue his diazepam. He sniffed the air, hoping to catch wind of Logan’s arrival. Nothing. His – he paused – ‘employer’ was still a distant light in the peripheral of his head, weaving through an empty, black space.

Might as well do some laundry, he thought to himself.

The knuckles in his hands peeked through his skin as he picked through the three men’s clothes: Soft, comfortable woollen items for Charles, cloying with must and age; ragged, beige t-shirts and button-downs, his own cobbled-together wardrobe; and lastly the formal wear of Logan’s chauffeur uniform and his many vests – some with holes, some with tears, most with blood. He grimaced, sorting the clothes into different wash categories, into repair jobs, into lost causes. As he went, he felt along each piece, searching for anything left over in the pockets; he’d told Logan to check before putting it in the pile, but by this point he was better off just doing it himself. God knows how many time’s he’d fished out coins or pen lids, even some sticky humbugs from Charles’ pockets-

His fingers ghosted over something solid in Logan’s trousers.

He hadn’t noticed until just now, since most of the shorter man’s clothes had a strong scent of blood, and the metal that leaked like poison from his bones. But, whatever was in there? It _reeked_ , the tang settling on his tongue. Reaching in, he unfurled his hand to see a small, silver cylinder rolling on his ash-white palm. It was rounded at one end, flat at the other, and was wrapped in a thin casing. Rightly, he guessed it to be about nine millimetres in width.

A bullet. He sniffed it, and recoiled.

Adamantium.

He clenched the thing in his fist.

“It’s too late,” Logan had told him. At the time, Caliban hadn’t understood why.

Now, he did.

His free hand found his face, and they crushed into each other as he tried to steady his breath, shaking like a wire in the wind.

 

After a long moment, he released his pink features and rubbed his finger and thumb under his eyes, wiping the wet drops off onto his shirt. The cage of his other hand released, the bullet settling back into the creases, and he stared at it. Then, he opened up his chest pocket and slipped it in, a cold weight against him.

“No,” he muttered, resuming his chores: “It’s not.”

Logan would likely be back in a few hours.

He’d talk to him then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert that conversation goes really well and Logan agrees to get help with his suicidal depression
> 
> Jk he storms out in a huff
> 
> Anyway thank you for reading this slashfic where no-one kisses or reconciles their love


End file.
